Marmite
by Thorn17
Summary: Sherlock has returned, but things are not back to normal at Baker Street just yet. Both men are under the impression that neither of them are forgiven for their respective actions which led to Sherlock's 'fall', and this is something which has to be resolved before life at 221B can ever return to normal.


The rain pattered down onto the first floor lounge window of 221B Baker Street, but this was the only notable sound there was. Both residents were in the flat, with the torrential rain of London over the last few days having apparently deterred any criminals from contemplating committing any crime. It seemed that they were all perfectly happy to get their hands dirty by committing crimes, but didn't want to get wet in order to do so. No crimes had been brought to their attention since Sherlock had returned from 'the dead' nearly a fortnight ago. A few people were still licking old wounds apparently, wounds caused by Sherlock's deception.

As a result, Sherlock had assumed his pouting position on the sofa, dressed in his blue and grey pajamas, lying stretched out with his face facing the back of the sofa. John, being the more practical and realistic of the two, had spent the last few days organising and tidying the flat, as it had now been taken over by Sherlock's possessions again. It was nice for John to feel than he was organised and in control again, even if it was only over a few inanimate belongings.

Currently, John was halfway through trying to clean up the latest victims of Sherlock's resulting disastrous experiments: the remnants of their tea set with a hand painted map of the United Kingdom on. John had often wondered about that tea set. It didn't seem like the type of thing that Sherlock would ever buy for himself, having scoffed at John and Mycroft's patriotism on numerous occasions...

"I am Marmite, John," Sherlock murmured into the sofa cushions.

John shook his head, dismissing all thoughts of tea sets. From Sherlock's latest comment, it sounded like it was going to be one of _those_ days again. John could honestly say that he had missed these sorts of days. Yes, on these days Sherlock was usually even more annoying and irritable than usual, but it was also these days that reminded John that Sherlock was human, just like the rest of them, and not as untouchable as he appeared.

As a result, John abandoned the ruined tea cup he was currently attempting to scrub clean, and made his way into the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel and praying that it hadn't been used to mop up any hazardous substances recently.

"Marmite?"

"Yes John, Marmite. I polarize people. I make them choose. They either like me or not, and more often it turns out to be the latter. There is no middle ground with me, no in-between, no compromise."

"What brought this on?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Interesting."

"What is?"

"You don't deny it."

"I'm not agreeing with it either." John sighed and sat down in his chair, taking his time to fold the towel neatly and place it on his armrest as he thought of the correct words to say. He didn't want to say the wrong thing and put Sherlock into an even more self-deprecating and destructive mood than the one he was already in.

Sherlock scoffed. "Semantics, John."

"No, not semantics, not semantics at all, Sherlock. You know as well as I do that you are unique. There is nobody else like you."

"There's Mycroft."

"He isn't like you at all."

"Maybe not in looks, or motivation, but we are more similar than I like to believe." Sherlock sounded pained, as if the admission had cost him more than he was letting on.

"How so?"

"He, too, is a controversial figure. His presence causes people to feel the sentiments which he so despises. Fear, anger, frustration. He inspires these feelings in others but denies that he feels them himself."

"And does he? Feel these things, that is."

"Of course he does. But he's a hypocrite, just like me."

"Sherlock, you're not a hypocrite."

"I am! I tell you that I don't feel things, emotions, sentiment, but I do."

"Actually, you've never told me that you _didn't_ feel these things. You've only ever told me that you shouldn't, or don't want to, or wished you didn't. That's not the same thing."

Sherlock waved a hand lazily, dismissing John's comment. "Even so. I am Marmite. The majority of people do not like me. They're either jealous of me, or angry at the things that I can deduce about them, things which they'd never wanted a living soul to know."

"I didn't think it bothered you if people talked? Talked about you like this? I didn't think you wanted their approval."

"I don't."

"Then what's the problem?"

There was a period of silence before Sherlock spoke again. "The accepted premise of Marmite is that nobody switches sides. Nobody wakes up one morning, having hated Marmite all their lives, to suddenly find that it's their favourite food."

"So?"

Sherlock sat up, but still did not look at John. "_So_, my point is that you're the exception to the rule, that constant rule which was applicable to everybody. You've changed sides. You all have. You don't forgive me for doing what I did to stop Moriarty. You don't accept that there was no other way, that if I had not done it then we really _would_ all be lying in a graveyard, buried six feet underground."

"Sherlock, I..."

"Don't, John." Sherlock's head snapped up and he made eye contact with John. John was no consulting detective, but he could see the effort that talking about this was costing Sherlock. "Don't make excuses for me. What I did was not the easy thing to do, but it was the right one, and if you can't forgive me for doing the right thing for once in my life then why on Earth are you still here?"

John leaned forward in anticipation of catching Sherlock before he stormed out, something which was growing increasingly probable."What do you mean 'why am I still here?' Sherlock, where else would I go?"

"Where else would you go?" Sherlock repeated quietly, almot in a whisper of disbelief. He dropped his gaze to his knees, suddenly finding the hole in his pajamas trousers very interesting. "Ah. If it's just a matter of accommodation, then I'm sure Mycroft would be quite happy to arrange something for you until you could find something permanent."

John stood, but did not move any closer to Sherlock. He was feeling confused and very unsettled, as it the chair had been pulled out from under him. "Okay, stop it now Sherlock, just stop it! What are you talking about? Where would I go?" John was also feeling increasingly guilty. How had he mistaken one of Sherlock's danger nights for an afternoon of relative peace and tranquility? How much had he forgotten about his friend over these last couple of long years when Sherlock had been gone? Had John grown so used to hearing silence instead of Sherlock's rambling deductions that it was no longer abnormal?

"Anywhere! You would go anywhere as long as it was away from here!" Sherlock shouted, quickly standing too now, facing the doctor. "I understand that I hurt you terribly, I _can_ actually - despite what people might think - comprehend that making you watch as I apparently jumped off a building was a 'bit not good', but after all of that, I would have hoped that you could forgive me when you knew the reasons why I did so!" The detective turned his head away. "But apparently I was wrong. Apparently you can't. None of you can. Lestrade doesn't bring me any cases any more. Mrs Hudson brings food for you, but not me. And you...you can't even look at me, John! You've spent every waking hour since my return doing things that did not require you to interact with me. You were never that bothered about a disorganised flat before I left, and yet now everything has to be in its place, in an order, not in chaos!"

"Sherlock!" John barked. "Stop it, ok? Just stop. I'm sorry. There's obviously been some sort of mistake. Just sit down, and I'll make some tea, and we can talk about it if..."

"I don't want tea! Despite popular belief, tea doesn't actually make everything magically better!" Sherlock waved his arms around wildly, turning to face John. "If you're going to leave me, just as I left you, then please, just go. It would be nothing less than I deserve, apparently."

That was the last straw. John had had enough of Sherlock's nonsense. Moving forward, John rested his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and physically forced him into sitting down on the sofa. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John sent him a warning look, and the mouth closed again. Sighing, John sat beside Sherlock, both facing forward and not looking at the other.

John was the first to break the silence. "You're not Marmite, Sherlock."

"What am I then?" Sherlock asked through gritted teeth.

John thought for a moment, and then smiled. "You're an idiot."

The reference was not lost on Sherlock.

"_...You risk your life to prove you're clever."_

_ "Why would I do that?"_

_ "Because you're an idiot."_

"John, I..."

"No, Sherlock. Now it's your turn to listen. You're an idiot. You're also amazing, and brilliant, and everything else that I said to you on that day. The day we met. Do you really think that faking your death was the worst thing you could do to me?"

Sherlock was puzzled. "It was, wasn't it?"

"No, you idiot. The thing that would hurt me most would be if you died for real, if you died for me and didn't give me a choice in the matter."

"And what would your choice have been if I had given you one?"

John took a deep breath. "To come with you."

Sherlock looked at him skeptically, mouth wide open. "John..."

"Not finished, Sherlock." John said, shortly. "I'm sure you remember the pool, where Moriarty would have quite happily killed us both. I hadn't known you for very long then, but even so I was still willing to give up my life for you. Because that's what friends do. They protect each other. So you see, I can't let you send me away now. I'm too selfish, but I need you. I need what we have here, at Baker Street. Nothing else, and nobody else, would do. The reason I haven't spoken to you properly since your return is the fact that I'm scared. I'm scared that I'll say the wrong thing and you'll decide that your actions weren't worth the results, or that you'll decide that I've been a disappointment to you because I did nothing while you were gone except mope around and hurt everybody left who still cared about me! Mrs Hudson and Lestrade don't hate you, you idiot! They're embarrassed, and ashamed, for ever doubting you. We all are. So you were right, you see. People don't change sides. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and myself still love you in our own ways, but we were just worried that you no longer cared for us, knowing that we each let you down in our own little way."

Neither man said anything for a long time. Sherlock was obviously processing what he had just heard, was reevaluating and deducing things again now that he had all the facts. John's heart was pounding in his ears, afraid that he had said too much, or not enough, or that something else was going to go wrong and it would all be his fault. Again.

Suddenly, Sherlock stepped forward and embraced John in a hug. Sherlock's head rested on John's shoulder, and vice versa. It wasn't even an awkward hug. Each man clung to the other as if they would never let go. Feelings of prolonged hurt, hurt which was now in the process of being healed, poured out from both of them. Each man forced themselves to regulate their breathing, with a faint, treacherous hope that everything could be okay again creeping into existence within them both.

"John," Sherlock lifted his head slightly and spoke quietly, albeit shakily, into John's ear.

"Yeah?"

"You, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson are my friends, friends who I don't deserve, and if you all thought that I would ever think that about you, that you were disappointments or cowards, then I'm obviously not the only idiot here."

And just like that, everything was healed. It wasn't quite back to normal yet, but it would be.


End file.
